


a snowball running

by prettylittlementirosa



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Samtember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:57:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8113738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettylittlementirosa/pseuds/prettylittlementirosa
Summary: Bucky shrugs with one shoulder, the good shoulder. He’s not really sure how to explain that he doesn’t like the guy because he was talking to Sam, making him laugh- that that should’ve been Bucky. Even as he thinks it, it sounds ridiculous. He has no claim over Sam, and really, it shouldn’t matter who’s making Sam laugh, just so long as he’s happy. God, Bucky wants him to be happy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is really just like 2k of Bucky thinking about how amazing Sam is because it's SAMTEMBER and boy does Bucky love his bird prince. That's it.

Bucky hasn’t been drunk since the forties. Not since he still had two god-given arms and Steve Rogers weighed less than a hundred pounds. There were a few years, after Zola and the experiments, that he played the part- matched the rest of the howlies drink for drink, then swayed on his feet and slurred his speech up just enough so that nobody would start to wonder. At the time it seemed like the best option, to just keep it to himself. He’s never let himself wonder what would’ve happened if Steve had known. It’s not worth it. Steve _didn’t_ know and what happened happened. It doesn’t matter now anyway. 

What matters now is that he let Steve and Sam talk him into actually showing up to this party at Avengers Tower. There’s really no need for him to be here. He’s not even an Avenger, never has been, probably never will be. And he can feel Tony Stark’s eyes glued to him, watching, like maybe he’s going to try and steal some of the china or something. It’s unnecessary. It’s not like Bucky can kill his parents a second time, after all. But Stark’s watching him, and Steve’s chatting with some brunette lady and the guy with the eye patch (Bucky actually likes him a lot. He’s got a no-nonsense way about him and he’s hilarious if you pay attention.), and Sam’s been off in the corner with some man Bucky’s never seen before and something about that has him grinding his teeth. So he drains the last of the liquid in this cup the demigod that can apparently summon actual thunder gave him and continues to sulk in the shadows.

The point is Bucky hasn’t been drunk since the forties. So it’s a little disconcerting to feel a ball of warmth radiating out from his stomach all the way down to his toes and to hear all the conversations whirling around the room at a distance, kind of like there’s an invisible wall between him and everything that’s happening. Steve warned him about this, said their bodies couldn’t metabolize this particular liquor fast enough, but Bucky didn’t think much about it. It’s fine. It’s not that big of a deal. There’s no threat here, no need for him to have his guard up. Besides, even with the lag that comes from a slight buzz, he’s still probably more lethal than ninety-percent of the people in this room. It’s fine. He’s fine. And it feels kind of nice anyway.

Or it would if he could just get rid of that annoying pulling sensation in his gut, the one that yanks at him every time he looks up to see Sam smiling openly at that man. Who is that man? And why has Sam been cozying up to him all evening? Sam’s the one that convinced Bucky to come to this stupid party. “It won’t be that bad,” he’d said, tangling his fingers in Bucky’s hair before sinking his teeth into the scarred flesh of his shoulder, trying to suppress a moan so Steve wouldn’t hear just how much Sam likes having Bucky inside him.

And god does Bucky like being inside him. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything, _doesn’t_ mean anything; they’re just friends who get off together. Maybe not even that. They’re just two people who aren’t actively trying to kill each other, and who also get off together sometimes. A lot of the time. Pretty much every day. It’s just a physical thing. Their bodies just fit together well. Sam’s got those thighs - big and beautiful and full - and they just feel good wrapped around Bucky’s waist. They feel good underneath his fingers. They feel good against his lips. Especially when he presses his mouth to that spot, right on the inner curve, and Sam shivers. Yeah, they’re good thighs.

Almost as good as his ass. Sam’s ass is… otherworldly. It’s the only way to describe it. It’s the perfect ratio of muscle to fat and it feels like heaven in Bucky’s hand. He wants to get his mouth on it. He’s never done that before but he thinks he’d enjoy it. He thinks Sam would enjoy it. He’d make _sure_ Sam enjoys it. Anything to hear that noise Sam makes - the guttural one that sounds like it’s being pulled straight out of him - when something feels really good. God, it’s a good sound. Maybe Bucky’s favorite sound in the whole world.

Now Sam’s laughing - apparently Mystery Man is funny too - and okay yeah, _that_ sound, that’s Bucky’s favorite sound in the whole world. It’s loud and booming and contagious and so fucking beautiful. God, Sam is so beautiful. In every way. Just. So beautiful. The best kind of beautiful. The kind you can’t ignore. Because even when he’s being an ass, even when he’s refusing to move his seat up and finishing the last of the milk as he’s watching Bucky pour a bowl of cereal, even when he’s telling him he hates him, Bucky still know Sam’s going to have his back. He still knows he can trust him and count on him, that he’s going to be there. Bucky still knows that he can fall asleep with his back to him and that Sam’s got him covered. 

And Sam’s the kind of person you want on your side. He’s smart. In a practical way, in a way the rest of them overlook sometimes, a way that has nothing to do with training. He can read a hostile situation, just the same as the rest of them, can anticipate a threat and counteract it. But he also knows that hydrogen peroxide is the best way to remove blood stains from clothes, also knows who to ask directions from and who to avoid entirely. He knows how to move about the world as an actual human being. So far he’s the only person Bucky knows that survived a war and still came back a person. 

And he’s gentle, in a way Bucky would never expect a soldier to be. But he knows it to be true. Learned it the first time he took a bullet he couldn’t heal from on his own, learned it when Sam’s fingers ghosted over the wound, then took a sewing needle and a piece of actual thread (lime green so it wouldn’t blend in) and stitched him back together. Bucky barely felt a thing, too mesmerized by Sam’s fingers dancing over his skin, too caught up in _Sam_. 

Sam Wilson. The kind of person that will take one for the team, no hesitation, and come out of what has got to be the worst experience of his life with a smile on his face. A fake one. But a smile nonetheless. And he won’t even hold it against you.

He’s too good for this life, too good for Bucky, definitely too good for Mystery Man.

So yeah. Bucky and Sam are just friends. Or fuck buddies. Or whatever the kids are calling it these days.

It shouldn’t matter when Sam flashes that charming gap-toothed grin at Mystery Man, then pushes off the spot at the bar he was leaning against to follow him over to a staircase and up it to god knows where. It _shouldn’t_ matter. He’s a grown man and he can do whatever he wants.

But Bucky’s feet are moving. He’s walking across the room and he’s climbing those steps and he’s not even sure what he’s going to do, has no plan, doesn’t even know where he’s going. All he knows is that Sam deserves the world and maybe Bucky can’t give it to him, but he thinks maybe he’d like to try anyway.

The floor the stairs lead to is nothing like the one below it. It’s quiet save for the soft whirring of technology; it’s practically empty. The party’s bustling with people, laughing and chatting and sucking up all the oxygen in the room, but up here there’s room to breathe. It’s brighter too, no mood lighting, but still feels _softer_ somehow. There’s a hallway in front of him and over the resonating static of computers, Bucky can hear Sam’s voice, like his ears are tuned in to Sam-FM.

Sam and Mystery Man are in one of Stark’s labs.

“Tony wants to create a program that would surpass Aadhaar,” Mystery Man says.

Bucky can’t see Sam from where he’s standing just outside the door but he can picture him rolling his eyes when he says, “That’ll be a fun mess to clean up.”

Mystery Man chuckles. “Yeah, have fun with that.”

“What, you’re not gonna help?” Sam says and Bucky can hear the smile in his voice and he hates that it’s not directed at him. Hates how selfish he is but he still can’t stop himself from stepping in the doorway and clearing his throat, just as Mystery Man says, “Not this time.”

The guy doesn’t startle but he does look surprised to see Bucky standing there. Sam does not.

“I was wondering how long you were gonna lurk in the hallway,” he says. 

“Wasn’t lurking,” Bucky says. Because he wasn’t. He was listening. There’s a difference. Probably.

“You must be James,” Mystery Man says.

“Bucky,” he corrects, sparing him a single glance. He’s being rude, can hear it in his own voice, can see it in the way Sam’s looking at him, but he doesn’t care. He wants this guy to leave, wants to be alone with Sam, wants to put his hand on Sam.

But the guy doesn’t leave. Instead he holds out his hand and says, “Bucky, right, sorry. I’m Bruce.”

Bucky shakes it, maybe squeezes a little too tight, but Bruce doesn’t even seem to notice.

“How do you know who I am?” Bucky says. It’s a dumb question, an unnecessary one. His face has been plastered all over the news more times than he can count and he showed up here with Steve and Sam. Every person at this party with half a brain probably knows who he is. But he’s just shy of drunk and he doesn’t like this guy, doesn’t like the way he’s been taking up all of Sam’s time and attention tonight. So he asks, hopes maybe it’ll make Bruce uncomfortable.

He doesn’t get the reaction he’s hoping for.

“What the hell, man?” Sam says, his exasperation directed completely at Bucky.

“It’s a simple question,” Bucky says. This is not going the way he wants it to. Sam looks pissed.

Bruce clears his throat. “I read about you in a history book just like everyone else.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I’m gonna-“ scratches the back of his head “-I’m gonna go see if Tony has access to any more vibranium.”

He walks out leaving Bucky and Sam alone in the lab. It’s what Bucky wanted but now that he’s gone the lab feels huge and cold and overly bright and Sam doesn’t look happy at all. Okay so it’s the exact opposite of what Bucky wants. He wants Sam smiling and laughing and talking. Not standing there staring at him with his arms crossed, his lips a thin line of disappointment.

“I don’t like him,” Bucky says, looking at the ground.

“You just met him.”

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder, the good shoulder. He’s not really sure how to explain that he doesn’t like the guy because he was talking to Sam, making him laugh- that that should’ve been Bucky. Even as he thinks it, it sounds ridiculous. He has no claim over Sam, and really, it shouldn’t matter who’s making Sam laugh, just so long as he’s happy. God, Bucky wants him to be happy.

“I love you,” he says. He doesn’t mean to. It just bursts out of him. Because he does, he really fucking does, has for awhile now. And he’s not sure how it took him this long to realize but there it is.

He forces himself to look up at Sam and finds him staring back, amusement written all over his face.

“You’re so damn stupid,” Sam says but he’s smiling. He looks happy again so Bucky counts it as a win. “First of all, that was Dr. Bruce Banner. The guy that’s designing your new arm.”

Oh. Well. Okay yeah Bucky fucked that up. Definitely owes him an apology.

“Second of all,” Sam continues, “You can’t just sulk around all night at a party, getting drunk by yourself, and then tell me you love me. That’s not how it works.”

“I’m not drunk,” Bucky says; then, “I’m _not_ ” when Sam gives him _that_ look. “I just,” he says, then sighs. “I just really love you.”

“I love you too but you don’t see me being a dick to every person that comes within ten feet of you,” Sam says.

It takes a moment for his words to register and when they do, Bucky feels a burst of warmth explode out of his chest, better than any amount of alcohol or buzz could ever provide.

“Say that again,” he says because he needs to be sure he heard it correctly, needs to make sure he didn’t just imagine it.

“You heard me,” Sam says but he’s walking over to Bucky now, putting his hands on his chest, pushing them up over his shoulders and wrapping his arms around Bucky’s neck.

It feels good, feels right, feels like the best moment of Bucky’s whole entire life when Sam leans in and presses their lips together. Bucky hasn’t had a home in a long time but he thinks maybe he just found his. Thinks he’d like to spend the rest of his life trying to be the same for Sam, trying to give him every ounce of happiness he deserves.


End file.
